A Criminal Minds Advent Calendar
by mosylu
Summary: It's the most wonderful time of the year, and I've got the drabbles and one-shots to prove it. It's a grab bag, folks. Pairings: Emily/Reid, but they're not all going to be about them. Rating may change. Latest posted: Cryptic
1. The Hat Thief

Here's the deal, my pretties. I'm still working on War Crimes (thank you to all those followers!), but doing this for fun on the side. As you may have surmised, this is the first of a set of drabbles, revolving around Christmas. They will take place in all seasons. Some mush, some silliness, some angst. Some romance, some team, some secondary characters, some victims, maybe even some unsubs. Merry Christmas to one and all.

* * *

**The Hat Thief**

Emily came out of the file room and spotted Morgan's empty chair right away. Aha. Ahahaha. Now was her chance.

She scooted over to his desk and opened one of the bottom drawers, all the way to the back where there was a little space behind the files. Sometimes it held candy or snacks, or phone numbers, or the trashy magazines that he thought were his little secret, which was pretty damn hilarious when you thought about it.

The empty space mocked her.

_Damn._

"Emily?" Reid said from behind her. "What are you doing?"

She propped her hands on her hips, staring down into the drawer. "Looking for Morgan's stupid hat. He's not wearing it, is he?"

"No."

"Oh, jesus, Strauss didn't zoom in on her broom and take it, did she?" It was just the kind of thing their humorless superior would write him up for.

"No."

"Well, then, where -" She turned and saw him.

He gave her a crooked little smile. On his head, he wore a plastic top hat, bright red with a green band. There was a piece of wire, attached to the band, that curved out and dangled a clump of plastic mistletoe in the air.

When Derek Morgan wore it, he'd looked a little silly, but mostly hot. It was the Morgan factor. Everything became hot when he wore it, although even Penelope had admitted that this dumb hat strained the Morgan factor pretty hard.

When Spencer Reid wore it, he looked ridiculous. He had no factor. If anything, his factor went the other way; he could make a leather jacket look like it was missing a pocket protector. In this, the dumbest hat known to man, he looked like a total, complete, and unspeakable geek.

He looked like _her_ geek.

Her funny, sweet, strange geek, who wasn't afraid to look superlatively silly in a mistletoe hat.

Her hot, smart, sexy geek, who'd had exactly the same thought as she had.

"Wow," she said.

"Yep."

"Great minds think alike, apparently."

"You want it?" He made a move to take it off.

"No, that's fine, I like it on you." She moved closer and flicked the mistletoe, so it swayed gently. "So tell me, Dr. Reid, what exactly is the origin of the mistletoe tradition?"

"It's a parasitic plant," he said, catching her hand as it trailed down his front. "Well, partially parasitic, a hemiparasite, which makes it botanically fascinating." He walked backward toward the file room, pulling her along with him. She went willingly, grinning. "Traditionally, it's thought to bestow fertility and virility, possibly due to the white berries' resemblance to - "

"I can figure that part out myself, thanks." She yanked the door shut behind them.

Some time later, the door to the file room whipped open. They jumped apart.

Morgan stood in the doorway, shaking his head. "Like you two really need an excuse to mack on each other." He leaned in, plucked the hat off Reid's head, and plonked it on his own. "If you need me, I'll be visitin' the sweetest mama in the FBI."

"We won't," Emily promised. "Close the door, would you?"


	2. O Christmas Tree

**O Christmas Tree**

The email was the same as it was every year. _Federal employees should be advised that work-space decorating for the holiday season should be within reasonable limits and with all due attention to federal health and safety regulations._

Because Penelope Garcia had been working for the FBI for nearly seven years, someone went around to check.

* * *

_10:43 am - Behavioral Analysis Department, Technical Analyst's Office_

When Farrell stepped through the door, he almost reeled back out again, sucker-punched by holiday cheer.

Gold and silver garlands swooped from the ceiling. Plush elves lined the CPU bank. Tinsel icicles dripped from the bottom edge of the two monitors anchored to the wall. Seven stockings hung on the back of the door, each with a name written in multi-colored glitter on the white portion and the red portion liberally sequined. Sparkling, puffy cotton snow created a base for a cheerful Santa, sleigh and eight tiny reindeer included. A trickling sound flummoxed Farrell for a second until he realized it was a water pump, fastened to the base of a three-foot live Christmas tree at the end of her desk. The tree itself was so covered in ornaments, tinsel, and blinking lights that no trace of green showed through. The star on the top bestowed serene light on the Yuletide chaos.

The woman in front of the central monitor held up one finger, the nail appliqued with a snowflake. "One moment, I gotta get this running!" A picture of a horribly mutilated body flashed for a moment, then disappeared under a rapidly scrolling list of data. "Okay, that should give me a minute or two." She spun around. "Hi! Nog?"

Farrell focused. What he'd thought was an extra hard drive cabinet was in fact a small refrigerator, humming away as it chilled several cartons of eggnog. She took one out without waiting for his answer.

"Penelope Garcia?" he said, attempting to establish a professional ambiance, but feeling rather as if accepting the cup she offered had been a step backward. "I'm James Farrell, from Human Resources."

"You're new," she said.

"Um. No. We just, um, haven't met before."

"Oh, okay. What can I do ya for, James Farrell from Human Resources? Got some shady applicant you want me to check out?" She waggled her fingers over a free keyboard.

"Actually, I, uh, wanted to address the matter of your, uh, work space." He gestured.

She looked around. "Nice, isn't it?"

"Ma'am, did you receive the email from Human Resources?"

"Probably. You guys are email-happy, you know that? And I'm speaking as a hacker here. I've conducted entire relationships over email, but you put me to shame."

"Ma'am, we understand that people enjoy decorating for the season, but don't you feel this is . . . somewhat overzealous?"

Garcia blinked once or twice. On the desk behind her, Rudolph's nose blinked too. "Overzealous?"

"Most departments find that a few garlands and maybe a poinsettia are sufficient, you know."

"Are you saying I should take my decorations down?"

"I'm just saying that this _amount _- well. It's against federal health and safety regulations. Especially the eggnog. And the Christmas tree."

"_I'm_ against federal regulations, especially if you're making me work in a Grinch cave! And you've got some nerve criticizing my eggnog, buddy, when you're halfway through your cup."

When had that happened? He set it down. "Ms. Garcia, please. I'm not unreasonable, but even you have to admit the Christmas tree is a bridge too far."

"It's not a Christmas tree," Garcia argued. "It's an office plant."

"That has lights, ornaments, and tinsel on it."

"I like sparkly things."

"And a star!"

"Matches the one in my hair."

That much was true. But - "Ms. Garcia, I'll make you a deal. I'm willing to overlook most of this, but honestly, the tree has to go. "

"A harmless little office plant?"

"You can bring it back after the holidays, sans tinsel."

She sighed. "I guess. But it's gonna throw the whole balance of the room off, I hope you know that."

"I do, Ms. Garcia," he said feelingly, watching her unplug the light string, the star, the other light string, and the water pump. "I really do. But it's regulations, you understand."

She shrugged. "Just doing your job, I know. Let me top off your nog before you go."

* * *

_10:22 am (half an hour earlier) - Human Resources Department_

Farrell frowned at the short straw in his hand. "But I've never done this before," he said.

"High time you learned," Brampton said unsympathetically as the rest of the department scattered. "Anyway, it'll be good for you. If you can handle Penelope Garcia during the holidays, you can do anything."

"Is she really that flamboyant?"

"I've met drag queens who'd think she should dial it down a notch. Can you imagine all that plus Christmas spirit?"

"Why can't we send an email?"

"This is best handled in person, and with a certain amount of . . . flexibility."

"We're the FBI. People flex for _us_."

"Yeah, well, so is she, and when it comes to the woman who revamped our entire background-check system? We're the friggin' Cirque du Soleil. Besides, she can do things to your credit rating that will make your children cry on Christmas morning."

"Really?"

"Not that she would. I'm fairly sure. But I'd rather not risk it. Besides, do you really want to explain to SSA Hotchner why we lost her to the CIA?"

Farrell blanched. "Any advice?"

* * *

_11:04 am - Human Resources Department_

Brampton was lying in wait. "How'd it go?"

"She gave up the Christmas tree."

"Really? Last year it was a knock-down drag-out fight to get her to surrender the Santa scene. You must be convincing. But where's she going to put her presents?"

"She had stockings." Farrell lifted the paper cup. "And nog."

"Nog, huh?"

"Non-alcoholic."

"Damn."

"Still, it's not bad. By the way, I saw this guy with this really dumb hat."

"What did he look like?"

"Uh, big, black, good-looking."

"Oh, that's one of Garcia's team. I'd let that one go too."

* * *

_11:09 am -__- Behavioral Analysis Department, Technical Analyst's Office_

"Hey, sweet darlin'."

"Get in here, you beautiful hunk of Christmas cheer, you. Nice hat."

"Yeah, I had to steal it back from Reid."

"File room again?"

"Yep."

"Aww."

"Aww, nothin', it made me queasy. Was that an HR drone I saw leaving?"

"Yep."

"What'd you give up this year?"

Penelope pointed at the tree, still at the end of her desk, but unplugged and ready to be taken home.

"Aw," Morgan said. "Where's Santa gonna put your presents now?"

"Silly, I have stockings." Penelope tapped her chin. "You think if I bring in a Nativity scene next year they'd let me keep my Christmas tree?"

"Mama, if you do, make sure I'm here."


	3. Stille Nacht

**Stille Nacht**

A/N: Okay, I know the last two have been weapons-grade fluff. This one's a little more serious.

* * *

The choir master called out, "Good, good. Once more."

The kids moaned, drooping all over themselves. In the pews at the front, tired parents who had heard the same song run through twice since they'd arrived to pick up their kids moaned too.

The choir master, well used to both kids and parents, insisted, "We almost have it, kids. _Almost._ Remember, this is silent. Still. Cold." He looked at his choir and sighed. "Look, this is Minnesota, right? We know cold. How many of you have ever been out on a frozen lake at dusk?"

Most of the hands rose. This was, after all, Minnesota.

"Great. Close your eyes and think of that. The cold all around you, the stony sky, the total silence. A whole lot of nothing. You got it?"

Nods.

"Okay, now picture one tiny spot of warmth in all this emptiness. Maybe you can see it far away. A tiny dot. That's what you're singing. The warmth _and_ the emptiness. And . . ." He cued the accompanist, who gave the soprano section their starting note.

_Silent night . . . holy night . . ._

A door to the back of the church opened. A small, disheveled man slipped through. He stood still for a second, listening to the high, pure children's voices.

_All is calm, all is bright._

The same door opened, and a tall man came in. He moved carefully, alert, his dark eyes flickering around the church. They narrowed when he spotted the first man.

He kept his voice low. "Alan McBride."

"Shh," McBride said. "The song."

_Holy Infant so tender and mild._

He closed his eyes for a moment, his round face falling into lines of deep pain.

"They have these complicated orchestral arrangements of this song," he said, eyes still closed. "But it's meant to be a capella. Written that way. Just like they're doing it here. Maybe a guitar. Otherwise nothing but the pure voice." He sighed. "So many things are meant to be simple and aren't."

"You killed four people. That's simple."

"If they'd been any good at their job, they would have saved her."

"It doesn't work like that. You've been an EMT for fifteen years, you know that."

"I thought I'd feel better when they were dead," he said, in wondering tones. "I thought I'd stop feeling . . . Do you have a child?"

"We're not talking about me."

"I don't want to talk at all," McBride said. "I want to listen. You almost never hear the whole song. Shepherds quaking and all."

They stood in the dimness at the back of the church, the clear notes hanging in the air like bubbles in ice.

The second man lifted his wrist and muttered, "Stand down. I'll bring him out in just a moment."

_With the dawn of redeeming grace . . . Jesus, Lord at Thy birth . . . Jesus, Lord at Thy birth._

McBride sighed again.

A boy in the front row took a step forward and sang the last phrase of the first verse. The notes lifted up through the first half, until his unearthly, soaring voice seemed to come from somewhere in the rafters. _Sleep in heavenly peace . . . _

Then it slid gently downwards, like a mother laying her child into a manger. _Sle-eep in heavenly peace._

The last note shivered around the church and seeped into a breathless silence.

"It's time to go," the second man said.

McBride nodded and held out his hands. As the kids and parents got up to go, chattering and rustling, the click of the handcuffs and the thud of the door closing at the very back of the church were lost.


	4. Yankee Swap

"Tell me the rules again?" Reid asked, a line between his brows.

"Everyone brings a gift," Elle told him. "The dumber the better. Then we all draw a number. The person who drew number one gets to pick the first gift and unwrap it. The next person can decide whether they want to pick another gift or steal the first person's gift. Each successive person who gets their gift stolen can decide whether to steal someone else's gift or pick from the table." She was even talking like him now, Elle thought. She'd been explaining this way too much since Garcia had proposed the game yesterday, considering Reid's oft-stated IQ. "Oh, you can't steal a gift back, and if a gift gets stolen three times, it can't be stolen again. Got it?"

"I don't understand," he complained.

She flopped back in her chair. "Well, that's a first."

"What exactly is the object of the game? You've stated that the gifts should be absurd. Which mine is, by the way. I got-"

"Reid! Don't _tell_ me!" Elle wondered if she still had aspirin left, or if she'd used it all up when picking through that nasty consult from Los Angeles.

"If the gifts are so absurd, why would we want them so much?"

"The gifts aren't the point, Reid. It's the game. It's social intercourse."

His mouth popped open. "_Oh._"

He was quiet a moment. There were miracles.

"Really? Stealing from each other is social intercourse?"

"I swear to you, if you ask me one more question about Yankee Swap, I'll tell Mindy from Reception you think she's hot."

Mindy was buxom, sexy, and extroverted: in other words, an object of terror for Reid. He blanched, but opened his mouth again.

Elle cut him off. "Look, just play the game tonight, okay? Some things you can't research beforehand. You just have to experience."

* * *

Haley and Jack were the special guests at an otherwise team-only event. The baby was bright-eyed and burbly, and seemed happy to be passed around. Elle looked from a distance, which was where she preferred to be in relation to babies. Morgan, in spite of his insistence that he would stick to practicing, seemed to be incredibly comfortable with the baby in his arms. "What?" he said to the tech's raised eyebrows. "I like 'em this way. They're cute, they're manageable, and you can give 'em back."

They ate pizza and drank Gideon's special-recipe eggnog, which Haley wasn't allowed to have because she was still breast-feeding Jack. They'd barely cleared the last crust-Reid was still chewing, in fact-when Garcia clapped her hands and squealed, "Yankee swap time!"

Gifts had been piled on the couch. They hadn't been labeled, but Elle could tell who'd bought what anyway. The FBI didn't pay her to file her nails, after all.

Morgan drew number one and rubbed his hands. "Hah! My pick." He studied each gift closely, going so far as to pick one or two up and shake them next to his ear.

Finally, he picked up a plain brown box, meticulously taped. Reid smiled.

Morgan broke open the tape, pulled away the tissue paper, and frowned at the porcelain figure he held in his hand. "It's . . . Santa."

"Does it at least sing?" Garcia asked hopefully. "Check for a switch."

"No, it's just . . . Santa. Reid, come on. This was supposed to be stupid."

"Santa Claus_ is _stupid."

"Shh!" Haley covered baby Jack's ears.

Reid plowed on. "Who in their right mind would believe that there's some immortal man living at the North Pole, which by the way, has no landmass to build on, a mean temperature of -34 degrees in the wintertime, and a constantly shifting geographical location-as I said, some immortal man who makes it his business to distribute gifts to all the children of the world? At a loose estimate, that's - "

Morgan leaned over and swatted his arm. "Kid. Enough. Who's next?"

Hotch said, "That's me."

Morgan held up the Santa figure. "Look how cute. Jack's lookin' at it. He wants it. G'wan, Daddy."

"Tempting as that is," Hotch said, and picked an enormous box wrapped in green and red stripes. Elle choked on her eggnog.

Hotch tore off the paper, opened the box, looked inside, turned a color last seen on a dead body, and closed it again.

"Oh, no," Haley said. "With that face? You have to share."

Elle smirked into her cup. Gideon quirked a brow at her. She grinned.

"Yes! Share," Garcia ordered. "Those are the rules."

"Are they?" Reid asked, interested. "Elle, you didn't mention that. Although I supposed it's implied, since other players need to view the gifts available for stealing."

Garcia said, "What he means is, share!"

Reluctantly, Hotch opened the box again and retrieved an object that made the entire room erupt into laughter. The red plastic top hat had a green band with a piece of wire attached to it. From the other end of the wire dangled a clump of plastic mistletoe, perfectly in position to invite Christmas smooches. Hotch surveyed it doubtfully, ears redder than the plastic.

Garcia was actually hiccupping with mirth. "Where - where did you get that, Elle?"

"Somebody left it at my place after a party last year," Elle explained. "The movers packed it when I came here. Cute, isn't it?"

"Without a doubt, the most absurd piece of haberdashery I've ever beheld," Reid said. "Hey, did you know that mistletoe seeds are spread via bird feces?"

"Thanks," Elle said. "I'm even happier to get rid of it now."

"Put it on, honey!" Haley ordered.

"Oh, no," Hotch said. "No."

"Yes," she said, plucking it out of his hands and plopping it on his head. The room exploded with hilarity again. Haley leaned in and gave her husband a loud, smacking kiss.

He kissed her back, but took the hat off quickly. "Next."

"Me," Elle said.

"Want this back?" he asked, offering the hat.

"Not on your life." She picked a gift bag, overflowing with pale blue tissue paper.

It was a scarf with an appliqued snowman design. "When you push his stomach," Haley said, "his eyes light up."

Elle did. "Ugh, that's creepy." She looked at Gideon, who'd picked number three. "All yours. I know you want it."

"Nope," he said, and reached over for the hat. Hotch surrendered it gratefully, although Haley groaned. The combination of Gideon's usual verge-of-grumpy expression and the hat, tilted at a rakish angle, distracted them so thoroughly that it was a good five minutes before they'd realized what Hotch had picked from the pile on the couch. Morgan's gift, wrapped in silver paper, turned out to be a picture frame.

"Not so bad," Hotch said.

"Oh no?" Morgan asked, and flipped a switch, so that a tinny version of "Hot Stuff" blared from hidden speakers. J.J. laughed so hard she dropped her cup. Luckily, it was almost empty.

Haley opened a Rudolph baseball cap with a fat red bulb on the bill. "No batteries," Gideon apologized.

"You can have the ones from the frame," Hotch offered.

Garcia got the theft rolling again by grabbing the hat from Gideon's head and perching it on her own elaborate updo.

"Don't tempt me, darlin'," Morgan warned.

She fluttered her lashes at him. "But it comes so naturally."

After some consideration, Gideon took Elle's scarf off her hands. Elle took the Rudolph hat, and Haley picked out a small box with red paper and a green bow. "A beverage warmer, sweetie? _Really?_"

"It's practical," he said.

"Practical wasn't the point."

"It's better than Santa," Morgan said.

"Hey!" Reid said.

J.J. took the scarf out of Gideon's lap. "I've got another Yankee Swap to go to at my aunt's next week," she said, grinning at the snowman.

Gideon took the beverage warmer. "_Thank_ you," Haley said, and picked up a metallic purple gift bag, fat with star-spangled tissue paper and dripping with curly ribbon. "Oh, my God!"

"Got it last year, but I already had one," Garcia said, beaming at the blue satin sleep mask with enormous false eyelashes and golden eyebrows.

When Haley tried it on, Jack took one look at her and began to wail. She pushed it up to sit on top of her head and picked him up. "Shh, it's okay, sweetie, I'm still here."

"Hey, Reid, you're the last one!" Elle said. "The best spot." She narrowed her eyes at him, wondering how he'd managed that.

Reid surveyed the options available to him. "I think I'd like to steal a gift," he announced.

"Yeah, get on with it," Morgan said, grumpy at being stuck with the Santa. His mouth fell open when Reid reached one long arm over and scooped it off the table.

"Hey, you can't steal your own gift," Elle objected.

"That was never explicitly stated," Reid said.

"Sure wasn't," Morgan said, and lunged for the hat.

Garcia fought back briefly, but surrendered. "Oh, _mon cher, c'est parfait!_ So that means I _have_ to have that frame."

Hotch gave it up gratefully, and made a relieved face when he opened the package from J.J. "Socks. Nice."

"Open them up," J.J. told him.

Sparkly candy canes prompted one last wave of laughter.

The party started to break up after that. Jack had to be taken home before it got too cold, Morgan had another party to go to, and Gideon retreated to his office. Reid started gathering his own things, carefully packing the porcelain figure back into its box.

"So did you have fun?" Elle asked.

"Yes," he said. "I got my Santa back."

Her eyes narrowed. "Your Santa?"

He waved at her and left. She watched him go, remembering that he played poker really, _really_ well.


	5. InFlight Entertainment

**In-Flight Entertainment**

They were on their way back from Duluth, quiet and tired. It was one of the better flights home - they'd saved the families, the unsub was safely in jail and would answer for his crimes.

Hotch had talked for close to an hour with Jack earlier, hearing all the excitement of the day and promising that he'd be there in the morning. He'd hoped to have a few case-free days around Christmas. He'd taken it as vacation last year, the first Christmas after Haley died, but hadn't had enough this year.

He knew he was lucky that the case had wrapped up when it did, in time to get him home for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, but still close enough to both to make it unlikely they'd be called out again until after the holiday. Still, he wished he'd had more. Not all Christmas traditions could be shoehorned into two short days.

Remembering one of them that he'd missed (another case, in Montana), he took out his phone and scrolled through the videos he had stored. Sneaking a look around, he plugged his earphones in.

Rossi, who had seemed to be asleep, said, "Is that what I think it is?"

Hotch hit a button. "No."

Rossi eyed him. "Why do you have 'A Charlie Brown Christmas' on your phone?"

"I do have a six-year-old, Dave," Hotch said, but he felt his cheeks heat.

"What about Charlie Brown?" Emily asked from across the aisle.

"Nothing," Hotch said. "Just - "

"He has the Christmas special on his phone," Rossi ratted, and Hotch glowered at him. It didn't have any effect; it rarely did, on Rossi.

"You're serious." Morgan didn't wait for an answer, but leaned over the back of Hotch's seat. "Damn, I love that movie. Linus is my man."

"An interesting, if paradoxical character," Reid noted. "Incidentally, Charles Schulz coined and popularized the term _security blanket_ for that particular kind of comfort object."

"Ever seen it?" Emily asked him.

"Nope."

Morgan pulled out his phone. "Babygirl, we need some technical goddessery. No, no, it's fine, the case didn't open back up. Hotch needs to show us something from his phone, and we want to put it on the screen in the jet. What? No! Sicko. 'A Charlie Brown Christmas.' Okay, what? Slower. Hotch, you got the cable handy?"

Rossi asked, "Have we got any popcorn?"

"Looking," Emily called from the jet's tiny kitchenette. "Nope, but we've got peanuts and pretzels."

Reid rummaged. "M&Ms, plain, M&Ms, peanut. Two packages each."

Her head came around the corner. "Hey, that's _my_ bag!"

"You took them from me anyway," he pointed out, and opened up his own bag. "Licorice, peppermint sticks, and peanut butter cups."

"Wait, peanut butter cups? How did I miss those?"

Rossi sighed and opened his own bag. "I was gonna give this to my neighbor who gets my mail," he said, pulling out a bottle of Scotch he'd found in the Duluth airport. "But what the hell. He's ninety, shouldn't be drinking hard liquor anyway. Cups, Emily?"

Hotch knew he should probably object, but he let Morgan take his phone and hook it up, per Garcia's phone-borne instructions. If he couldn't watch Charlie Brown, Linus, Lucy, and Snoopy with Jack, he could watch it here and now, with these people.

Reid leaned across the aisle as Emily dimmed the lights and Morgan's efforts brought up a pixel-y picture on the screen. "I really have seen it," he confessed. "Seven times, in fact. I just, uh, knew if Morgan thought I hadn't - "

"Shhhh," Hotch said, taking the bag of candy he offered. "I know. Watch the movie."


	6. Louder Than Words

A/N: While I know "Demonology" aired in March, I've taken the liberty of making it happen in November, just for this one-shot.

**Louder Than Words**

Emily forgot she was even wearing her Glock until security stopped her. By that time she was so grumpy that while she could have gone back and locked it in her car, she flashed her badge instead, following that up with a hard glare learned at the knee of The Honorable Elizabeth Prentiss, Ambassador to Wherever-the-Hell it had been the last time she'd actually sat on her mother's knee. If in fact such an event had ever taken place; she frankly doubted it.

"You're late," her mother said when she squashed into the pew.

"We were on a case," Emily said through her teeth. "Hi, Dad."

"Hi, sweetie."

"That's convenient," her mother said.

"Not for the women who were raped, dismembered, and dumped in the state forest."

The woman in front of them whipped around and gave Emily an absolutely filthy look, and that was when she saw the two small, curly heads just showing over the top of the pew. Oh, hell. "Sorry," she mumbled. "Anyway, Mass hasn't started yet," she told her mother.

"It's Christmas Eve Mass, Emily. Standing room only. You can't exactly sneak in during the first reading."

"I _didn't_," she growled. "It's only 6:45." Although, it being Christmas Eve Mass, every pew was already stuffed to capacity.

"And I got some _very_ dirty looks for saving the space for you."

"How are your teammates, Em?" her father asked.

"Fine. Good. We got my boss back in time for Christmas Day, that's the important thing."

"He has a son, doesn't he?"

"Yeah." And it wouldn't have sat well with Haley if Hotch had been forced to cancel out on Christmas Day with Jack. With Hotch, either, for that matter.

Rossi had been headed off to dinner with friends, Morgan had stayed at the airport to catch a late flight to Chicago, Will and Henry had picked J.J. up, and Reid had been headed home, probably looking forward to a teetering stack of texts on eighteenth century whale hunting or some such.

And Emily? She was indulging in a little light masochism.

She'd often thought that her father should have worked for the U.N. Anyone who could get her to agree to a) come to church for the first time in close to twenty years and b) come to church with her _mother_ would have very little trouble with North Korea. Of course, playing mediator between two hard-headed women for Emily's entire life had probably honed his skills.

Her teammates would have pointed out that her father had been trying to get her to come to Christmas Eve Mass for the past twenty years and why was it this year she'd suddenly said yes?

She growled under her breath. There had to be something pathological about profiling yourself.

The church, already brimming, filled up to edge. Diplomats, ambassadors, senators, congressmen and lobbyists filled the air with chatter and body heat. Powerful people showing other powerful people that they were just like the common man they represented, going to church on Christmas Eve as if they were Joe Smith from Kansas. It was one of the reasons for the security outside-lob a bomb in this place and you could take out a fair chunk of the nation's governing body. Emily amused herself by studying the church and selecting optimal spots for snipers.

The Mass started, and twenty years melted away. The ritual was the same. You didn't have to be a psychopath to depend on a ritual. But this ritual made no difference. A man standing at the front of a group of other men and women, saying words that were only meaningful if you believed in them.

It hurt more than she could have imagined.

Why had she come? She hardly knew. Maybe because of Matthew. Maybe because of the whole experience with the misguided priest, or seeing John again. Her heart had felt battered all month from it, rattling around in her chest with every new case and garnering more bruises. Perhaps she had come hoping that the old pattern of words and music, standing and sitting, would let it fall quiet at last.

She sat through the readings, listening stony-faced to the story of a baby born in a stable. That damn innkeeper was clearly a control-freak and a sadist, making a woman in labor go sleep in an outbuilding. She listened to the homily. The priest had been in Washington a number of years and cleverly avoided any statements that fell into one party or another. He spoke instead about peace and joy and love for all the world.

Precious little of that to spread around.

She counted swoops of garland around the church through the remainder of the homily, then counted them again through the Prayers of the Faithful as the priest asked for God's intercession on any number of good intentions.

"For those who have died - "

The words hit her like a bullet to a flak-jacket-covered chest, knocking the wind out of her. Her hands clenched around the edge of the pew, short nails biting into the wood.

_For those who have died._

Matthew.

Matthew, Matthew, Matthew.

" - that those grieving their loss at this time of year may find peace and consolation."

He'd loved Christmas. He had loved the contradictions and the implications of the king of heaven as a newborn baby, sleeping in a feeding trough for animals. He'd loved the shepherds keeping watch by night, cowering in fear before the Angel of the Lord, who said to them, "Fear not, for I bring you tidings of great joy." He'd even dragged her to Christmas Eve Mass in St. Peter's Square, the two of them freezing their asses off in the huge mass of other Catholics, listening to the Mass over the loudspeakers. The last time Christmas Eve had meant something to her, or to him.

Matthew, who'd been gone long before the stress of an exorcism had killed him.

She gasped for air.

"Emily?"

It was a wisp of sound, underneath the priest's words at the presentation of the gifts, but she heard it.

"Emily," her mother said again.

She couldn't muster up enough breath to respond.

Then her mother's hand settled over hers, tentative. "Matthew?" she whispered.

How did she know? Emily didn't bother to ask. She couldn't. She let go of the pew and turned her hand over to clutch at her mother's thin, cool, lotion-smooth fingers while pain and guilt raged through her.

Matthew had made his own choices, she knew that. He had been the one to turn to drugs, and while Reid's addiction had given her the tools to forgive Matthew for that, she was still trying to forgive herself for being the source of what had broken his faith so thoroughly. She knew you couldn't break something that wasn't already fragile. It was still a long way from that to letting herself off the hook.

Her mother made a small noise in her throat, and Emily awoke to the fact that her hand was clenched tight enough around her mother's to crunch bones together. She loosened her grip, breathing out, "Sorry."

Instead of pulling away, her mother squeezed her hand. The congregation stood, and so did they, two women who had a hard time saying hello to each other without butting heads, holding hands as Emily blotted escaping tears away with her free sleeve.

* * *

After the Mass, they were swept out of the church with the rest of the congregation. In the square, the crowds spread out, and they were able to stop for a minute.

"Where are you parked, Em?" her father asked.

"A couple of streets over. Not far."

"You were lucky," her mother said. "Considering how late you got here."

Emily bit back the remark that wanted to escape. She turned to her father and hugged him. "Merry Christmas, Dad."

"Em," her father said, low in her ear. "Thank you for coming. It meant a lot to your mother."

An hour ago, she would have said something caustic in reply, but now she only murmured, "I'm glad I came," and wasn't even lying that much.

She hugged her mother too, both of them stiff and awkward as usual. They were not huggers in general. Emily wondered if she imagined that her mother held her close for a nanosecond longer than she normally did. "Merry Christmas, Mom."

"Merry Christmas, Emily."

She thought, _I'm probably going to regret this_ even as she said, "Hey, you guys want to come back to my place? Maybe have a drink or something?"

Her mother's eyes brightened. It was very subtle, if you hadn't spent forty years trying to read her face, trying and failing to understand her. "Your place is pretty far away, isn't it?" she asked.

"Not that far," Emily's dad said. "And I'd like to see what you've done. We haven't been there since you moved in."

They both looked at Elizabeth. She looked away, shifting one shoulder, a silent acknowledgment that well, all right, she really didn't have any objection to such a scheme.

"Okay," Emily said. "I'll see you there, then."

She set off down the sidewalk toward her car, stepping carefully through the snow. The shoes that had been fine for Georgia were definitely not suited to the snow of DC. The light spilling out from the church disappeared when she turned the corner toward her car. It hadn't worked for her, the Mass. It had only been words in an overcrowded room, with one brief terrible moment.

She flexed her hand in her pocket briefly, feeling the ghost of her mother's hand settle over it again. No questions or remarks, just being there when she'd needed someone to hold onto.

Inside her chest, her heart beat quiet and steady, at peace for the moment.


	7. My True Love Gave to Me

A/N: OHOHO. You thought I was done. The answer is no, for reasons that Reid will explain anon. Also, this one is all Not A Droid's fault. He said I should write the CM Christmas special, and the evil plot bunnies in my brain (with nasty pointed teeth!) came up with this. I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY.

**My True Love Gave to Me**

They caught a case three days after Christmas, which was almost a relief to Hotch. His holiday had redefined awkward. It had been so good to see Jack on Christmas Day, and so hard to see Haley, sitting all the way across the room in the big armchair when last year they'd cuddled up together on the couch. Welcome to the rest of your life, Aaron Hotchner.

"First victim was found hanged in his orchard the day after Christmas," J.J. said, passing out folders. "It was initially dismissed as suicide, because his wife had died earlier this year, he had no children, and he was about to lose the business."

"Sucky time of year to be alone," Emily commented.

"There's never a good one," Hotch murmured.

"Second and third victims were found hanged in their home yesterday, after they didn't show up to a family gathering. They'd just gotten married in early December, so the family didn't get worried until mid-afternoon. When they went over, this is what they found." J.J. clicked the remote and brought up a grotesque crime-scene shot of a young couple, both hanging from the same light fixture, faces purple and tongues hanging out.

"The fourth, fifth, and sixth victims were found early this morning. Three female tourists from Bordeaux, also hanged in their respective hotel rooms. It was the French consulate that insisted on bringing us in."

"Interesting," Reid said. "The pattern of the victims."

"There doesn't seem to be a pattern," Rossi said. "Age, gender, personal characteristics - "

"Kevin Partridge was found in a pear tree," Reid said. "Heidi and Mike Darmer were newlyweds and very much in love. In some forms of slang, they'd be termed turtledoves."

Emily's mouth fell open.

"Emma, Francoise, and Marie Fournier were, of course, French, and in the same slang, they might be called hens."

Morgan looked at the folder. "Seriously?"

J.J. nodded. "Looks that way."

"But Christmas is over," Morgan argued.

"Not really," Reid said in his lecturey voice. "Traditionally the Christmas season lasts until the Feast of the Epiphany on the 6th of January. That's where the twelve days of Christmas came from. Depending on how you count, it either goes from December 25th through January 5th, or from the 26th to the 6th. It wasn't one feast day, it was an entire festival season, which of course had its roots in pre-Christian solstice celebrations co-opted by the church. The song is thought to have its roots in a game played during the festival."

"On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me," Emily mused. "These are gifts."

"To who?" Rossi asked. "From who?"

Hotch said, "Garcia can comb through the victims' backgrounds, see if they traveled in the same circles, used any of the same services. This unsub is highly organized. It's likely he's already picked his entire list of victims."

"You think he'll finish the song?"

"I think he can't do otherwise. We've had six victims. There's a possible . . ."

"Seventy-two," Reid supplied.

Even Hotch was taken aback at the scope of it. "Seventy-two more, plus whoever the unsub's 'true love' is." He closed his folder. "Wheels up in thirty, guys."

As they all vacated the conference room, Rossi shuddered. "I never liked that song anyway."

"Takes too damn long to sing," Hotch agreed.


	8. Cryptic

Cryptic

Emily dumped the contents of her go-bag into the laundry hamper and went back downstairs to find Reid surveying her Christmas tree like Spock inspecting an alien life form. "At a loose estimate, you're going to spend less than three hundred hours at home this month," he told her. "With your sleeping habits, around one hundred thirty of those hours will be spent sleeping."

"Only on nights you don't stay over." He was a night owl, and she'd woken up more than once to an empty spot in the bed and her boyfriend downstairs, reading. "And if this is leading up to a question about why I decorated, let me remind you that job or no job, some people like to do more for Christmas than putting out a porcelain Santa."

"What's wrong with my Santa?"

"Nothing. It's an excellent Santa. But I like to put up a tree. Wreaths. Christmas cards, even." She dumped out the plastic bag of mail she'd gotten from the post office on her way home. The pile was bigger than usual because they'd had a sharp turnaround, two cases back to back.

"Do you actually write Christmas cards?" he asked as she sorted through the contents, dumping obvious ads in the trash, putting bills back in the mail holder on the wall, and making a small stack of Christmas cards.

"I have extremely good intentions," she sighed. She held up a card. "From Great-Aunt Ethel. It'll have a Nativity scene on the front, and inside, a Bible verse and five dollars."

"Five whole dollars. Wow."

"Yeah." She sent him an alluring look. "Treat me right, I might spring for dinner. And this one's from my cousin Bernadette. Feel that?"

"Thick."

"Six pages about how Kayleigh is doing in ballet."

"Is she with a professional company?"

"She's six. An only, late-life child. There will be pictures. Possibly a YouTube link." She laughed at his face and picked up the next one. "Hey, this one's for you."

"Me?"

"Yeah, but it's my address."

They looked at each other. They'd never even talked about moving in together-they both liked their own space too much. Their relationship, while an open secret among the team, was pretty much a regular secret everywhere else. Anyone out there who would know that they could get ahold of Reid by sending something to Emily would also know how to send something to him directly.

"There's no return label," she said. "You realize this is exactly like something the team would get in a file folder, right on top of the crime scene pictures of convulsed bodies."

His brows quirked, and he took the envelope out of her hand. She shook her head.

He studied the envelope, and the look of interest slid away from his face. "Never mind," he said, dropping it in the trash can. "It's nothing."

"What?" She picked it up again. "How do you know?"

"I just do," he said curtly.

"Okay, now I know there's more to the story. You always explain."

"It's junk mail, okay? Toss it."

"It's handwritten. Nobody hand-writes junk mail. And besides, how could junk mail possibly come here for you?"

He crossed his arms and set his jaw.

She studied his face. Then she turned the envelope over in her fingers several times. The handwriting was angular and spiky, all caps. The envelope was plain, medium-weight, no fancy embossing. Someone who didn't go much for embellishments. Somebody whose handwriting he knew. Someone who could put that look on his face.

"It's from Gideon, isn't it," she said.

His eyes flickered away, then back. "No."

"You're in contact with him?"

"No."

"Has he sent you things before?"

He shifted in his chair.

"How many times?"

"Once or twice," he muttered.

"What did you do with them?"

"Threw them away."

"Did you read them first?"

"No."

She slid her finger under the flap and tore it open.

"Hey! Opening someone else's mail without their consent is a federal offense."

"So arrest me," she told him, unfolding the sheets she found inside. "But I warn you, I'm armed." She read, while he restlessly sorted the remainder of her mail. "Wow."

He struggled visibly to look disinterested. "What?" he asked, his voice faux-careless.

"This . . . may be the dullest letter I've ever read. It's completely banal." She looked up. "I think this is in code."

The flicker of interest was infinitesimal, but she'd played too much poker with him over the years to miss it.

"Are you hungry?" He went to the drawer where her takeout menus lived and scooped out a handful.

"Spencer," she said, and he looked up. She only called him Spencer when she really wanted him to hear her. "Put your daddy issues to rest for a moment and think."

"I think I'm justified in my 'daddy issues,' considering that this is one of the father figures who prompted them."

"Think like a profiler, would you? He sent this to me, addressed to you. Why?"

He looked at the ceiling. "Because he knew you'd want me to read it."

"And he encrypted it."

"To pique my curiosity, yes, I know."

"Right. So, genius, what would you conclude about a man who went to such lengths to send you a letter?"

He turned away. "What about Thai?"

She contemplated strangulation briefly. "You're lucky you're cute," she muttered, and raised her voice. "The last time we ordered from that place, I was up all night. Let's do pizza instead."

She put the letter in the middle of the table, where he couldn't miss it.

* * *

Although he was basically easy-going, when you hit Spencer Reid's core of stubborn, you hit it _hard._ The letter from Gideon sat on the table all through pizza that night, all through the next few days off, and in fact, clear through Christmas.

When he came over, his eyes would flicker over to it every once in awhile, but that was the extent of his acknowledgment. He didn't pick it up, he didn't talk about it. It was in the way, like elephants in the room tend to be, but Emily refused to move it. She would have taken heart if she'd thought he'd read it, even once, because then the contents would be filed away in his massive brain and he could take it out and examine it at any time. But the paper never deviated from its original position on the table by so much as a fraction of an inch.

He did, however, want them to go to his place a lot more. She hoped that meant it was preying on his mind.

They caught a case just before New Year's, and didn't get back into DC until nine o'clock New Year's Eve. It had been a nasty one-men found in basements with their skin stripped off, flayed alive. When they'd caught the butcher (quite literally; he'd worked at Al's Meats for twenty years), he had the skins stretched out and drying on frames in his back bedroom.

Even Morgan's suggestion of going out for New Year's was half-hearted, and he seemed relieved when nobody took him up on it. Although they'd been up into the wee hours of the morning, Emily hadn't been able to sleep on the plane, so she barely put up a fight when Reid held his hand out for her keys. She sat in the front seat and found herself floating on the surface of sleep, dipping in and out of dreams smeared with murder.

Every time she opened her eyes, though, she saw his face, lit up green by the dash, the street lights outside flickering yellow every so often, hands at a precise ten and two on her wheel. She smiled to herself and closed her eyes again.

She woke up fully when the car stopped, and found that the car smelled like Italian. Specifically, the Italian place around the corner from her house that they both liked. "Hey, when did that happen?"

"I called from Quantico and asked them to have it ready," he told her.

She opened the bag he handed her and took a breath. "Eggplant parmigiana," she sighed. "When was the last time I told you I loved you?"

He kissed her. "This morning. 9:32 am, right before the raid."

The food woke her up more, and she turned on the TV, clicking through the channels to find the Times Square festivities. She wrinkled her nose at the plastic-looking host and muted him. The crowd heaved silently, all silly glasses and crazy hats while the neon lights glittered around them, wildly excited for a new beginning.

She turned to say something and found him holding the letter, reading it. Her mouth fell open.

He looked up and put it down, fast.

"So," she said. "What kind of code is he using?"

"A cipher, actually," he said. His eyes sparked with interest briefly. "An tough one." Then his expression closed down and he turned away from the letter deliberately. "What are you watching?"

She crossed the kitchen, pulled a legal pad and a pencil out of a drawer, and silently handed them to him.

He screwed up his face like a child being forced to eat steamed broccoli, but his eyes wandered over to the letter again.

"Go on," she said.

He took the pencil and flipped it between his dexterous magician's fingers. "I wonder if - " He flipped pages on the legal pad until he found a fresh one and started scribbling.

She grinned at him, diving deep into a puzzle he'd finally decided to tackle. She danced her fingers over his shoulder blades, making him twitch but not distracting him in the least, and went back to the couch to watch the rest of the New Year's Eve party in Times Square.

* * *

She got up off the couch at midnight and went over to get a kiss, but it took several minutes to attract his attention and then the moment was gone. "Just wanted to see how it was going," she said instead.

"It's a rare cipher," he told her. "I tried about four different versions before I found one that started making sense."

"So what does he say?"

He looked down at the legal pad, then handed it to her.

_Dear Spencer,_

_I know you probably haven't read the other letters I sent. If you are reading this, then Emily succeeded in changing your mind. I read your last paper. The section on remorse behavior as demonstrated by sexual predators was particularly intriguing. It sounds as if you are doing well. I hope that is the case. C4._

Emily contemplated all the different kinds of encryption that were possible in the world, only some of which could be solved with ciphers.

She also wondered how Gideon had known about them. Of course, he was a profiler. You didn't stop being a profiler because you'd turned in your gun and badge, or even because you'd gone home for the day. Could be he was in contact with someone else. Could be he'd just predicted the trajectory of their relationship, long before they'd been anything besides friends.

"Sounds like he's been thinking about you," she said.

"Mmm."

"Okay, this I don't get," she said. "C4? Like the explosive?"

"Like the chess move," he said. "It's the English Opening."

"If he wants to play chess by mail, why didn't he put a return address?"

"He did. He's in New Mexico."

She flapped the envelope at him. "Strangely enough, I'd already used my razor-sharp FBI skills to learn that from the postmark. What does he expect you to do, send it general delivery?"

"No, his address is in the second code. Under the first one."

"_Under - _" Of course there was another code under the first one, she realized. It was Gideon, to Reid. Only Jason Gideon would send a layer cake of encryption to say what other people would just write down. She handed him the decrypted letter. "You going to write him back?"

He frowned down at the paper, then dropped it. "I don't know. You think I should." It was a statement, not a question.

"I just thought you should read it." She tilted her head to look into his face. "But from the sounds of it, _you_ think you should write back."

He twisted up his mouth. "I don't know what to say."

She touched his face, tracing her fingers along his jaw. "Think about it. You're good at that."

* * *

She woke up again when he got in bed. "Hey," she mumbled.

"Did I wake you?"

"Yeah. It's okay."

She closed her eyes again, but he said, "Emily."

She rolled over to face him. In the dark, his face was a pale smear on the pillows.

"I wrote him back."

"What'd you say?"

He found her hand under the covers and squeezed it. "That I'm happy. Oh, and E5."

She smiled. "What time is it?"

"Three fifty-nine." He propped himself up on his elbow and squinted at her alarm clock. "No. Four, exactly."

"Which means it's midnight in Hawaii or somewhere, right?"

"Alaska."

"Whatever. Kiss me, Dr. Reid."

He leaned down and kissed her, lips soft and warm. "Happy New Year, Emily," he whispered against her mouth, breath brushing across her skin.

"Happy New Year."


End file.
